


The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea

by Savageandwise



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Genderfluid Character, Hamburg, M/M, Magical Realism, McLennon, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Sexism, Period Typical Transphobia, Work of fiction, alcohol use, and its garbage, not my take on reality, period typical racism, supernatural stuff, there's fucking magic in it, this isn't even the same universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-05-24 07:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: Hamburg, 1960.John and Paul meet a mysterious stranger who promises them everything they've ever wanted-for a price.





	1. Intro

“The devil tempts us not–'tis we tempt him, Beckoning his skill with opportunity.”

George Eliot, Felix Holt

He dreams of the ocean. Of the salt in the air, the tide coming in to tickle his ankles. He jumps, grips the wet sand with his naked toes and laughs out loud. A wave comes in knee-high and threatens to sweep away everything that is heavy and sorrowful in him. And he lets it. 

Paul's mouth is pressed against the skin of John's neck when he wakes. He tastes like the sea, the nape of his neck smells of sunshine. John shifts in his sleep, murmuring nonsense. Sleep-drunk, it occurs to Paul there's something wrong with this scene. John doesn't belong here like this. Then he remembers.

It's still pitch-black out, which means they haven't been asleep very long. It was already past midnight when John climbed in through the bathroom window, sloppy drunk and laughing and hiccuping. He didn't even remove his shoes before crawling under the covers. Paul is gasping for a drink of water but he's afraid if he gets up to go to the loo the magic will be spoiled. He holds his breath; John moves against him suddenly, his hip pressing into his groin. Paul is hard at once. He rolls away slowly. If John wakes up and notices he'll never hear the end of it. 

As soon as Paul slides away, John moves closer. This isn't unusual. It isn't that John needs a lot of space but he has a strange habit of sleeping with his knees folded practically to his chest. Not the most practical of positions when sharing a bed. John rolls over, pushes his head against Paul's shoulder. There's nowhere else to move, Paul is hanging off the edge of the bed. He figures hitting the floor will only hurt for a moment. Then John shifts again, pulls Paul squarely on top of him and holds him in place. His eyes snap open. 

Paul struggles to free himself for a moment. And oh, oh… it's too late. He's so hard and there's no way John hasn't noticed. John's breath is in his ear, sharp, loud. He angles his hips up so Paul can feel he's hard as well, and Paul wants to pinch himself—this can't be real. It's a dream. It's not real. John moves his mouth over Paul's. His lips are slightly chapped. Paul never knew how many nerve endings the lips have until this moment.

When he lets his mouth fall open a little, John wastes no time. He slides his tongue between Paul's lips and into his mouth. Slowly, just the tip of it, like licking a new flavour of ice cream. But Paul is starving. Starving for him, and he opens his mouth further and laps at John's tongue like it's his favourite flavour. 

He can feel the laughter bubble up inside him. Do you know? Do you know how I've wanted this? 

John slides his hands under the waistband of Paul's cotton pyjama bottoms and then, tipping the two of them sideways, reaches in and grips Paul's cock in his fist. Paul shoves at John's chest, pushing him away hard. He doesn't know why he does it. Maybe he's afraid of what happens next. Maybe he's afraid he'll do it wrong. There is a glint in John's eye. Fear? Anger? Too late for that. He pulls Paul close again and kisses him. But not like before. Not like he is tasting his mouth. John kisses him gently, his lips soft but determined. Kisses him over and over. Like lovers kiss. 

John's hand is back under the waistband of Paul's pyjamas. But this time Paul doesn't push him away. He slips a hand between them to feel John's hardness, rubs him through his trousers until he lets out a soft whimper. Such a small sound. Paul has never heard John sound like that before. Like he could do anything to him now and he wouldn't say no. Paul is used to girls. They always try to wriggle away. For every kiss they give you they say no three times. Not John. He opens his trousers impatiently, and grasping Paul's wrist, places his hand on his stiff cock. It's hot and silky, and Paul wraps his fingers round it and strokes it firmly. John's breath tickles in his ear. He's just getting the rhythm, just finding his pace, when John grabs hold of him again.

He's never done this to another boy before. He touched Ian's cock and Ian touched his but they were kids then, trying to imagine what it might feel like to be with a girl. Paul is glad John isn't a girl. He likes the way John feels in his hand. The way he can tell he likes it: the juddering of his heart, the rasp of his breath, the scent of his pre-come, like salt and warm pennies. Paul likes it sticky on his fingers. His own cock is wet too, a few more strokes and he'll spill into John's fist. He can feel John's lips against his skin. He isn't sure, but he thinks John is kissing his neck. The sensation is too much for him and he comes all over John's hand without so much as a warning.


	2. Verse I: Paul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Hamburg, things aren't exactly what Paul expected. What if someone offers to grant his every wish? What does he ask for?

The Indra is packed to the gills tonight. Paul can barely hear himself sing over the din. The sound is turned up so loud the walls shake with it. There are so many bodies, pressed against each other, jostling, shuffling, jumping. When it's like this the club comes alive and it's easier to overlook the dingy interiors, the filthy floor, the tasseled border, the round Chinese lanterns covered in dusty silk. They might be in a far more exotic location than Hamburg, looking out at the arched Indian windows. 

Paul's fingers are raw from playing guitar, his stomach is growling but they still have another two hours to go. They have to sing every song they know to crowds of loud, disorderly sailors and prostitutes, always shouting for more. After that they make some up. There's never time to do it for real, though, the way they used to, going through chord progressions facing each other, staring at each other's lips to catch the lyrics. 

We had something there, that's what Paul thinks. Something real, something special. It was better than clowning around on the stage making a mess of other people's songs. Paul wants to tell John that but he's afraid he'll misunderstand. This isn't about John and Paul, it's about The Beatles. It isn't about tossing your mate off, half drunk, shaking with months of pent up desire. It's about their future as musicians. 

John's doing “Carol”, he's practically shouting, dancing like his arse is on fire. His voice is long gone, cracked and hoarse but he's making the best of it. 

“Yeah, I know a swinging little joint all full of Krauts!” John sings.

Paul laughs out loud, catches John's eye and earns a grin for it. George has his eye on someone in the crowd. He elbows Paul, angles the neck of his guitar at a girl on the dance floor whose breasts are falling out of her tight dress, the flesh spilling over. When he looks over at Pete he can see he's staring at her too. Pete's playing too fast, like he wants the song to end already so he can rush over and grab a tit. 

“Now Paul's going to do one for all you lovers. Paul's the pretty one. Schön. Right? He's a schön... lad,” John finishes weakly. “Anyway, here's Paul.”

Paul knows better than to be pleased with John's words. He's all flattery on stage and cold as ice when they're alone. He takes the mic from John, their fingers touch. John purses his lips like he's blowing him a kiss and Paul launches into “Besame Mucho”. He sings it camp, rolling his r’s and doing a little tango step. After a moment John joins him, stamping his feet when they shout “Cha cha boom!”

On stage it’s easy to become someone else. Someone who lives for applause and never needs sleep, or food, or real affection. Someone who's already a big star in America, not working for peanuts here in Germany. It was different in his head when he imagined it back in Liverpool. Cleaner. Less work. He'd forgotten Germany would be full of Germans. The language sounds like so much noise. Rough as sandpaper. They're living in a cinema, in bare unheated rooms next to the loos. Paul's bed doesn't have sheets, he has to cover himself with his coat or with a huge Union Jack flag that doesn't offer much in the way of warmth. 

Paul can't sleep at night here in Hamburg. It's all wrong. It's too loud. Glaring. Too busy. It doesn't smell right. It's quiet enough in the windowless room he shares with Pete but he feels the turmoil of the restless city all the same. The panicked knotting of his intestines, the way his brain won't shut off. He's overwhelmed, holding his breath half the time as if he's anticipating some disaster that's always on the edge of his vision. It's all wrong, all the time. And John is sharing with Stu and George and that's all wrong, too. It's not just Hamburg. Paul has been like this since that night in Allerton. Ever since that night with John, Paul has felt as though someone switched on a light inside him. His insides are too bright for sleep. Too hectic. A myriad of thoughts flutter through his mind, rapid and butterfly-light. 

“Oh, love me forever. Make all my dreams come true!" Paul croons to the crowd.

 _Cha cha boom!_ All too soon the magic is fading with the last chords and Paul is plunged back to reality. John is handing Stu a guitar for his big number. He says something that makes Stu burst into peals of laughter, ruining his dark and mysterious image. This is that time of the evening, where Stuart turns to John and sings “Love Me Tender”. It makes Paul sick to his stomach.

Rather than stay for Stu’s number, Paul flees to the loo to splash water on his face and purchase a few prellies—that marvellous drug that keeps them awake for hours on end—from Rosa, the woman who cleans the loos. He befriended her almost immediately upon meeting her, charmed her with his little-boy-lost smile. Sometimes she takes him home and lets him use the bath, feeds him soup or a sticky sort of pastry stuffed with raisins, sugar and cinnamon. He wonders if she lost her boy and that's why she takes care of him, or if she just has a heart for strangers. He misses Mum more here and he isn't sure why that should be the case. After all, she's dead whether he's in Hamburg or Liverpool or any other place. The only person he can talk to about this is John, but there's never a moment to bring it up. John seems happy here, a different girl every night, all those little pills and his face pressed close to Stu's as they laugh about some private joke. Paul is pragmatic by nature. He knows he can survive without John's attention even if it means his world is a smaller, colder place. He can survive the way you can eat toast without butter. You can eat it but it's not very enjoyable.

“Komm her, lass dich anschauen!” Rosa commands.

Paul figures she wants him to come over so she can look at him. Sure enough, when he walks over and bends down, she’s grabbed hold of his cheek.

“Bist so dünn, Kindchen,” she says sadly, shaking her head. Too thin. She says it every time she sees him. 

Rosa pats his cheek and hands him a packet of pills and a few sweeties. Then she reaches up to smooth his hair.

“Brav bist du,” she says when he presses a kiss to her plump cheek.

Good boy. He's learned a smattering of Deutsch from Rosa and the whores and just from keeping his ears pricked.

“Vielen Dank,” Paul stumbles over the thanks.

By the time Paul gets back Stu is winding down. Paul picks up his guitar, plays a few chords over the last few notes of Stu’s song. 

“Fuck you, McCartney!” he hisses at Paul under his breath.

Paul shrugs at him, he'd like nothing better than to punch Stu in the mouth but they still have another hour to go. He settles for accidentally tripping over the cable connecting Stu’s bass to the amp, unplugging it. Stu is oblivious as ever but John notices, fixing Paul with a glare that could curdle blood. Once upon a time John was the first to join in on tricks like that. Once upon a time he initiated them. He used to think it was hysterical. Paul tries to ignore it as long as he can—the way John and Stu are with each other these days. The secrets and private jokes, how comfortable they seem touching. They have a trick they do where they look into each other's eyes and burst out laughing, like they don't even need to use words anymore. As a result Paul is always lashing out, criticising Stu’s playing publicly every chance he gets. John doesn't really defend Stu or Paul, he backs away and insists they solve it on their own. 

Three songs later, Paul is still seething inside at the thought of Stu’s pathetic singing, his weak attempt at guitar. John indulges Stu because he tickles his ego. How accomplished John seems beside his art school mate. The thought is petty and Paul banishes it with a shake of his head.

John and Paul share a mic for the last song, “Lend Me Your Comb”, a Carl Perkins number.

“Kissing you was fun, honey. Thanks for the wank,” John sings. 

Paul looks straight ahead into the crowd, ignoring the mangled lyrics. Stu’s plugged his bass back in and his playing is all over the shop but the crowd doesn't seem to care.

“Think you're better than me, do you?” Stu whispers in Paul's ear as they shuffle off stage towards the bar. 

Paul shrugs at him coolly. “Since when do you care what I think?”

He corners John at the bar where he's buying a beer on credit and bumming a fag off the barmaid, flashing her that Lennon smile. John props one foot on a wooden barstool, his elbow on the worn counter of the bar. He looks so agreeable Paul almost feels bad when he starts laying into him about Stu’s playing. It seems like these days all they do is argue and damn it if Paul doesn't prefer that to the awkward silence. When they aren't performing or arguing about the band John can barely look at him. Now, at last, he has his attention.

“If we can't show them we're a serious band how will they discover us? What label will want us with a shit bassist? A half-arsed drummer? A handful of songs to our repertoire?” 

“Want to take a shot at me singing while you're at it, Paul?” John asks, more bitter than angry. 

“Is anyone going to hear your singing over that racket? Is there anyone going to notice us if we don't improve? Is there anybody going to–” 

“–Is there anybody going to listen to my story?” a voice interrupts Paul mid-rant, the words half sung in a brassy cabaret sort of voice. 

The voice comes from behind them, a German accent but fluent English. Paul turns at once, reaches over to grab John's arm out of force of habit. He's known John too long. Being interrupted won't sit well with him unless the someone interrupting them is a stunning bird or a man of obvious influence. 

“Got nothing better to do but listen in on other people's conversations, love?” John snarls.

At first glance she is a stunning bird. Tall for a woman. She's dressed in a long, unbelted silk robe, open to reveal a boned corset, embroidered with daisies; a short tulle skirt, like a ballerina; long, long legs swathed in sheer stockings. On her feet she wears silver shoes with impossibly high heels. Her chest is narrow, the bosoms small, bound beneath the tightly laced stays. Her strawberry blonde hair is cropped close to the scalp in soft waves, like a jazz baby some forty years hence. She smiles, revealing a mouth full of charmingly crooked teeth, the eye teeth sharp and long, like fangs. A mouth that makes you think of kissing, of biting, of pure lust. She has a mouth like a wild creature. Like a wolf-child. She laughs out loud, throaty and full, and all at once Paul isn't at all sure she's a woman.

“Well, you were hardly being discreet about it, Liebchen,” she says in that rich voice, deep as velvet.

John is silent, watching the woman through narrow, wary eyes. 

“Mind your own business, Dracula. Don't you have sailors to service?” he asks.

“Call me Feuerlein. Everyone does. And I'll service anyone who catches my fancy. Anyone who can pay the price.” 

“What kind of a name is that?” Paul asks, finally finding his tongue.

“Mine,” the woman answers. She pulls out a thin case and opens it, plucks out an ivory cigarette holder, jams a ciggie into it and holds the tip out towards John for him to light. 

John obliges, his eyes never leaving her face. She sucks the smoke in slowly, exhaling in a slow stream through her nostrils. 

“What if I told you I can make your wishes come true?” Feuerlein asks. “For a price.”

John laughs lewdly. He's all bluster but Paul can feel his apprehension exuding from him like static electricity.

“Yes,” she says with a slow wink at Paul. “That, too.”

A blush sweeps through Paul, he looks away. He's had too many girls to count. He has quite a way with the ladies and has done ever since he was just a kid, charming girls out of sweeties and coins. Later, out of their knickers and into his arms. This Feuerlein isn't a girl, though. She's a woman. And if not that then something else entirely other, something fearsomely grown up and foreign.

“You want sweeties and coins? You want knickers?” she asks. 

Paul stares at her, his mouth gaping open. Her eyes are mismatched, the right is blue and the left is nearly black. When he looks closer he realises it isn't black at all, the pupil is simply blown out. Paul is quite transfixed.

“You better close that pretty mouth or someone here will put something in it,” Feuerlein drawls.

Beside Paul, John doubles up with laughter and he silences him with a glare.

“And you? You, angry stranger. Shall I heal your eyes so you can see who's standing right in front of you?” she asks.

She blows smoke out right into John's face, the shape of a heart inside a heart inside a heart. 

“How’d you do that?” John asks, prodding the smoke with a finger and spoiling the design.

Feuerlein exhales again and the smoke reforms in the shape of four boys playing instruments and shaking their heads. 

“This is what you want?” she asks. “The world on a string?”

John reaches for the figures but Paul stops him in time, his fingers closing over his wrist. There's a jolt where they touch, like an electric current. He gets a flash of them in bed together, John's mouth on his, their breaths mingling. Feuerlein is watching him with interest, like she can see what he sees.

“Is this what you want, angry man?” she asks, holds her hand out to the four nebulous figures.

“Yes,” John says at once. He watches the smoke-band rock and roll until Feuerlein disperses them with a puff of breath. John reaches for them a moment too late and the smoke disperses between his grasping fingers.

“We want the band to be successful,” Paul clarifies. “We want to make it.”

Paul needs this to work. He needs it to work. He can't have what he had that night with John: that delicious tingling of his nerves, the jolt in his stomach and then soaring—wingless—through a limitless sky. So he wants this at least: the music, standing on the stage and looking down at all those upturned faces, like flowers thirsty for sunlight. Feuerlein holds out a hand, large as a man’s, for John to shake and he takes it warily.

“Done,” she says, her voice deep as a gong. “There's something else you want,” she says insistently.

John narrows his eyes at her, shakes his head. She doesn't let go of John's hand. She turns to Paul, proffers him her other hand. He takes it in his own. She pulls them closer and links them. She clasps her hands over theirs.

“Done,” she says again. Her hands are cool but as she speaks Paul can feel them flush with heat.

“There's something else you want,” she says to Paul in exactly the same tone she'd used on John.

He hesitates, unsure if this is real or not. If it's a dream he can say it. If it's real he daren't.

“Say it in your head,” she says.

Talk to me. Paul says to John in his head. He asks him why he stopped talking in the first place. His own voice is deafening and he fears he's said it out loud after all. John is looking at him with interest and confusion. Paul is ready to turn heel and leave but Feuerlein holds up one finger, fingernail lacquered in green glitter. Paul can hear John’s voice like a storm brewing on the far-off horizon: “I want you so bad, it's driving me mad.”

Startled, Paul takes John's arm and tries to pull him away. His skin is crawling, like when your foot falls asleep and you get pins and needles, but it's all over his body. His stomach dips low and with a flood of hot shame, he realises he’s hard. 

“Nevermind this, it's rubbish,” Paul exclaims, horrified.

John seems surprised; the tips of his ears are red. He doesn’t budge from the spot.

“No. It's not,” John says. “We might as well, right? What harm can it do? If it's crap it's crap and if it's not… we're rich men.” 

He pulls his arm out of Paul's grasp, grabs his forgotten drink and downs the last bit of beer in his glass. Paul looks down; he can see the outline of his prick, stark beneath the black leather. When he looks up again John is staring at his crotch, eyes unreadable, a slow blush blooming on his cheeks.

“Is it rubbish? Is that what it is, my darling?” Feuerlein asks Paul. “Or is it just the possibilities frighten you?”

She reaches down to run the palm of her large hand against Paul’s stiffie. He can’t breathe, his skin tightens with fear. When he looks at Feuerlein it feels like being face to face with an adder. The snake might not be aggressive, but if provoked its bite is venomous. Paul shakes his head at her. When she steps closer he can smell her perfume, heady and musky.

“What's there to be afraid of? You're just a lad dressed as a bird.” His voice comes out high-pitched and paper-thin.

John watches them with amusement but lets out a gasp of shock at Paul’s crude words. He's probably never heard Paul sound this impolite. Paul doesn't care, his gut is telling him there's something not right here. There is something sinister about Feuerlein and it isn’t the fact that she might be a man. They have to leave. John never thinks to protect himself, Paul has to do it for him. 

“Come on, I think you've had too much to drink,” John says, putting his hand in Paul's. 

It's such an intimate action that for a moment he can't move. The feeling of being close to John is dizzying. Paul finds courage he didn't know he had.

“We don't need your help,” Paul says crossly.

John slings his arm around Paul's shoulders, he smells of sweat, beer and warm leather. Paul wants to pull him into an embrace and rub against him. Usually he can push these thoughts away, keep them in the back of his mind, but Feuerlein has unlocked them with her strange promises and mismatched eyes; her cool, confident hand on his prick. 

“We don't need your help, freak,” Paul repeats insistently as John pulls him towards the door.

He turns to see her spread her hands languidly. “What's done is done,” she says with a sharp smile.

He lets John manipulate him out the door into the early morning air. The sky is indigo, the streets and houses seem to glow in expectation of the dawn. They walk to the Kino and sit on the kerb. Paul's heart is hammering frantically, he wants to tear free and run to Rosa’s flat, he wants to get on the next train and go home to Liverpool. After months of wishing for a moment alone with John he finds himself hesitating.

“What's gotten into you, Paulie? Did you hear something? Because I thought… it was almost like…” John starts, letting the last words trail off. 

“We should lay off the pills. That's all it was,” Paul says firmly, ignoring the juvenile nickname. “Pills and beer. And lack of food.”

John's arm is still around him. Paul can hear John's voice in his head, over and over, over and over like a chant. I want you so bad, it's driving me mad. 

“I thought…” John starts again. “When she asked me what else… I thought I heard... “

Paul shuts his eyes. Say you heard me. Say you want me.

“I thought I heard Julia. But that's impossible, isn't it?” He sounds young, he sounds lost. 

Paul swallows his disappointment, it tastes bitter and syrupy at once. Of course. _There's something else you want._ Of course John would think of Julia. All at once Paul is ashamed of himself. He was offered anything in the world. Anything. And he chose fame and John Lennon. Mum didn't even enter his mind. It doesn't matter if Feuerlein can really grant wishes. What matters is Paul's choice.

“She was just fucking with us, you know?” Paul says after a while. 

John shakes his head slowly. His fingers tighten around Paul's shoulder and he looks down as if he's startled to still be touching him.

“It doesn't matter. Maybe she’s the real deal. This time next year...right, Paul? The toppermost of the poppermost.”

Paul nods stiffly. At least John's talking to him now. At least that.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Nevermind.”

John lets go of Paul to look for a ciggie. It’s a little worse for wear but he lights anyway and takes a drag. He hands it to Paul without a word. Paul remembers Feuerlein’s hand stretched out like a mime, the gaudy green glitter of her nails, the index finger pointing like a spear towards the sky. _Talk to me._ And then he did. Paul puts the ciggie between his lips, his mouth where John's just was. He feels a strange secret thrill. Maybe it was real. Maybe she made this happen. Maybe they are destined for greatness. John is staring at him with a strange incredulous look on his face.

“The balls on you, son,” John says, shaking his head.

“What?” Paul laughs nervously.

“ _You're just a lad dressed as a bird._ I nearly pissed meself.”

He nudges John's shoulder goodnaturedly and John leans back. 

“She grabbed my prick, John. Bold as brass.”

It is still dark out but he can see John's face is flushed pink. 

“I know,” John says reverently. “Fucking amazing.”

It feels so good to joke together they both break off in shock for a moment before erupting into gales of laughter.

Part of Paul is hoping John is magically back to normal now, but though he's certainly warmed considerably there's still a strange distance between them. A reserve that wasn't there before that night in Allerton. And Stu is still there, staring at Paul with a smirk on his face like he knows all his dirty little secrets.

“That’s a one sly, isn't he?” a voice says from behind him.

It's Feuerlein, Paul is sure of it before he turns around. When he does he sees she's waving her hands in direction of Stu. Today she's stripped of all her glamorous paint and theatrical costume. She looks like a boy now, reddish hair brushed back. His forehead is prominent, jaw bold, nose straight, cheekbones high. The eyes are sharp as a hawk's. He's wearing a pair of white trousers that hang elegantly on his hips. His shirt is linen, open at the neck. Paul tries not to stare. He's not sure how they could have thought Feuerlein was a woman. He's so obviously a man now. Paul can see no hint of those small round breasts; his chest is perfectly flat.

“That's Stuart,” Paul explains. “I guess you could say he's John's best friend.”

“I would say he's something to John. And you're another thing,” Feuerlein says cryptically. “You don't have to worry about Stuart.”

Easier said than done. He hates Stu. His stomach on fire and his head light with it. He hates his stupid face, his skinny body, the way he holds his bass. Paul hates the way he acts like he's better than the rest of them. Maybe he doesn't act like he's better. Maybe John does. Sometimes Paul catches himself gloating. Stu may be John's best mate but he didn't touch him as he'd touched Paul that night. Did he?

“It's just...He's a shit musician. He only joined because John asked him to and we needed a bassist.”

He sounds so pathetic. Like a little whinging child. Feuerlein is staring at him with a curious sort of look on his face. He reaches out to put a comforting hand on Paul's arm. His fingernails are still lacquered. Paul imagines that hand wrapped around his cock, green glitter flashing as he tosses him off. He squelches the thought rapidly, his stomach roiling with the beginnings of vague arousal. 

“Ach, to be young and in love,” Feuerlein says.

Heat licks Paul's cheeks and neck, even his eyeballs are hot with mortification.

“No, I'm not… I'm not…” he stutters.

Feuerlein pulls out a gold plated lighter, lets it dance on his knuckles for a moment before pulling a ciggie from thin air and lighting it.

“There's a trick to lying, my dear. Always start by telling yourself the truth first.”

Paul shrugs, slowly lifts his eyes to meet Feuerlein’s.

“Better,” he says, handing Paul a ciggie and lighting it for him. “Now you're free to make your own truth.”

He feels lighter. The difference is marked. A smile wavers on his lips. 

“Such a beauty,” Feuerlein says, taking Paul's chin in one hand and turning it left and then right.

Feuerlein tilts his chin toward him, kisses Paul's lips briefly. Then he backs away and sketches a florid bow, like some courtier of old.

“Who can resist those eyes?” he says as he straightens again.

Paul doesn’t dare look around to check if anyone noticed. He finds he doesn’t care, in fact. His tummy feels warm, his chest tight. It’s just that he hasn’t been kissed this way–tenderly–since leaving Dot in Liverpool. That first day Koschmider had them perform despite being road-weary, intimidated, homesick. They huddled together on the stage like chicks in a nest. John's hip was pressed against Paul's, he didn't pull away as was his wont these days. Later, for lack of a room to put them up for the night, Koschmider brought them to his flat. They piled on to the bed, on top of each other for the most part, limbs tangled together. They were too terrified to feel awkward. Someone’s elbow pressed against Paul's ear. Someone else’s foot under his arm. A hand gripped Paul's and squeezed it hard and didn't let go. No. Not someone. It was John. He knew the shape of his fingers blind. That was the last time Paul felt there might still be hope. That was the last bit of tenderness like the dregs at the bottom of a wine glass. He swallowed them down in spite of the bitterness. Looking at Feuerlein now, he feels a sliver of guilt sting his heart like an icicle. 

“I shouldn’t have said that to you,” Paul says after a long pause.

“Said what, Liebchen?”

“About you being a lad in costume.”

“Is that what you think I am?” Feuerlein asks, mismatched eyes alight with challenge.

Paul is reminded of John and his barbed questions. He asks you things to test you, to form an opinion about you. Then he may call you out on your answer, make you regret it. The truth about John that few people know, is that he is quick to change his mind about you, he has great capacity for forgiveness. Paul holds a grudge like a Scotsman holds his purse; you have to really work at it to get him to change his first impression. He admires John for his accommodating nature.

Paul doesn’t know what Feuerlein is. He’s staring at Paul, rose-coloured lips parted slightly; smoke escapes the corner of his mouth. Tendrils of it wrap themselves around Paul like vines and he finds himself compelled to move closer to the man. 

“I don’t know,” Paul answers truthfully. 

“I find that sort of thing is an illusion.”

“What is?” Paul asks in confusion.

“The body, the roles designed for men and women. Sex.” He hisses the last word out through his teeth. “You don’t have to be what they say you are. You don’t have to do what they choose for you. There is no real. No fake. The only thing holding you back is your own expectation.”

Paul shudders involuntarily. He thinks of John, his lover's kiss, in his bed in Allerton. He touched him the way Paul would touch himself, no girl’s timid caress. And he liked it. He craved it. He craves it still. He often thinks he was built wrong. He was born backwards. He doesn’t care—girls, boys; he wants them all. The way Feuerlein puts it nothing is wrong with him. The way Feuerlein puts it he can march up to John right now and kiss him. The thought is incendiary. Feuerlein would have him burn down the world. 

“Think about it, my darling.”

Paul says he will. He can see the flames dance in Feuerlein’s eyes. Little flame. That’s what the name means. Paul asked Rosa. When she answered she made a little sign of the cross. Then she reached up and drew a cross on Paul’s forehead. 

“Gott schütze dich, mein Junge,” Rosa said. 

Paul didn’t care about the prayer but he appreciated the sentiment. It’s something a mother would do. 

Feuerlein nods at Paul as if he's satisfied now. He reaches over and strokes Paul's cheek. 

“When you're ready to ask for it come to me. And I will move the stars for you,” he says. 

Paul opens his mouth to answer but the words stick in his throat. 

“At your own time,” Feuerlein says.

He tosses the cigarette butt to the ground, grinds it under his heel. It's only then Paul realises he's wearing red, sparkling high heels. He turns and walks away from Paul into the crowd leaving a trail of red glitter in his wake.

Later the lads all pile in a restaurant, feasting on pancakes drizzled with lemon and dusted in sugar. Feuerlein’s name is on everyone's lips. Paul notices John is holding back a little. But George is on top form, alternately mocking her and admiring her.

“I grabbed her tit during a dance,” he says with a wink. “She's a girl, lads. Top notch.”

“Classy,” Pete says dryly. “Real classy, Harrison.”

George shrugs and stabs his fork at Stu’s pancake. John leans in and slaps his hand away. 

“Well, I think he's a man,” Stu says, pushing the pancake onto George's plate. “I think I saw his… you know…”

Paul wants to tell them about Feuerlein touching his cock. He wants to tell them about the things he said about the body being an illusion. But something stops him.

“I'd do her,” John blurts out suddenly. “Either way.”

The other lads laugh his words off but Paul just stares until their eyes meet. John doesn't look away, he lifts his chin defiantly. I don't care, Paul thinks coolly, do what you want. But he does care.

“So ask Cyn to send you some cash. You can use it to pay for a fuck,” Stu says.

John tries to kick him under the table and hits Paul's shin instead.

“Watch it!” Paul hisses.

He kicks John back and catches George instead. George just shrugs moodily.

“Anyway,” Pete says. “She's not a whore.”

“Isn't she?” Stu asks.

“Nah. I asked Horst about her.”

Horst Fascher, the bouncer at the Indra, knows everyone's story.

“She's a dancer. She comes from Berlin. Had some real training, too. Not like all those birds shaking their tits at you,” Pete continues.

Paul is startled to hear all this. He has this strange idea Feuerlein is something special. Something he shares with John alone. It feels wrong to hear everyone else talk about him like this. They all fall silent, processing the information.

“I'd do her, too,” George says breaking the uncomfortable stillness. “Bluest eyes this side of anywhere.”

“Aw, George, lad. Start small!” John laughs, clapping the boy on the back. “Get a nice girl your first time. That one will swallow you whole and spit out the bones!”

They walk back to the Kino in high spirits as the sun is coming up. John hangs back to walk with Paul and Stu keeps sneaking anxious little looks at them.

“Look, Paul. This thing with Feuerlein…” John breaks off awkwardly. 

He stops walking, takes hold of Paul's sleeve.

“It stays between us. Understand?”

Paul just stares at him open mouthed for a moment. 

“I know that, John,” he says at last, a trifle crossly. “I should think you'd realise I'm very good at keeping silent at this point.”

John looks taken aback and then, all at once, his face crumples and he looks anguished. Paul wants to pull him away, continue this conversation somewhere they can be alone. John's mouth is a thin, painful line. 

“Please, don't,” he says under his breath.

Paul isn't sure what he means. Don't mention it? Don't be cross? Don't look at me like that? Like you're starving for my touch. _I want you so bad, I want you so bad, it's driving me mad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an actual horror.  
> Between trying to put the research to good use and moving the plot along i thought I'd never make it.
> 
> But I got by with a little help from my friends!
> 
> Thank you to @whereitwillgo for reading, listening and just generally being around for a good chat.
> 
> Thank you so much to JaneScarlett for reading and so quickly assessing the issues. You're amazing.
> 
> Thank you to Twinka, my dear. You cut through so much of the bullshit but in the most painless way possible. I'm a brat most of the time but you manage that too. Tons of love.
> 
> For people who care about stuff like that. I looked up songs they sang in Hamburg. They really did sing "Carol", "Besame Mucho", "Lend Me Your Comb", Stu really sang "Love Me Tender".
> 
> Again, extra points to people who can tell me who Feuerlein is.


	3. Bridge I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly before the band leaves for Hamburg, John finds himself in a strange place.

After the third drink his ears stop ringing. Mimi isn't going to lift a finger to get him his passport. If he can't find a way to get a short copy of his birth certificate, he isn't going to Hamburg. They’re going to leave him behind. It's his band. He started it. Every time he manages to forget it, the thought hits him again, hard, like a bullet in the gut, shattering everything. John remembers Blackpool, Julia's stiff-backed walk, his desperation. Turn your head. Turn your head! Look at me! But she didn't. He tore away from Alf and ran after her, his legs trembling with the exertion. If she left him he couldn't take it. If she left him the world would end. A tempest of a woman, mouth like a motor, hands always grasping, pulling him against her, ruffling his hair. Her body in the coffin, smaller, insubstantial, wizened. Just like Uncle George. No one is dead this time, no one is dying. But that's exactly what this feels like. 

The fellow next to John is talking animatedly. His elbow connects with John's shoulder and John sloshes his drink all over himself. He pulls out his handkerchief to wipe his hands. It's one of Paul's, he must have pinched it from him one day when his nose was running and never returned it. He presses it to his nose now. It smells like a sunny day spent in Paul's room practicing chords. His heart clenches. No one is dead, but if he can't go to Hamburg that means Paul will leave without him. If he leaves him the world will end.

He isn't sure how he gets there, but before he knows it, he's hanging from the window ledge and Paul is helping him into the bathroom. For a moment they just stand there. Paul's arms are still around him, to steady him. John pulls away. Look at me, he wills. Look at me. He wants to beg Paul not to leave without him. Considering how long it took Paul to convince his father to let him leave in the first place, this seems unlikely. Finally Paul looks at him, he's grinning from ear to ear. John gets lost in the twinkle in his eyes.

“You're daft, you know? What's happened? Stu give your bed to someone else?”

John doesn't answer, he puts his arms around Paul's neck. “Take me to bed!” he demands.

Paul laughs. “I usually have to pay for a drink first,” he says, pulling John into his bedroom. “You're loose and fast, Lennon.”

John laughs softly and falls into bed. “And you love it,” he slurs.

John came here for a reason but he can't remember why. He pulls the coverlet over himself and promptly falls asleep. He wakes hours later, his heart hammering, his skin humming. Paul is pressed against him. His skin is so hot, he's on fire. John can feel his stiffness pressed against his hip, the shaky gasps of Paul's breath that huff out against his skin. This can't be real. He's still asleep. He's dreaming. Paul presses himself hard against John for a moment and then he rolls away. He reacts instinctively, dragging Paul up on top of him. It's not a dream. Paul's rubbing against him, arching his back. His furtive little sounds are making John crazy. 

He should stop this now. He's not even sure Paul is fully awake. All he can think is this is his last chance. All the times in the past he's wanted to do this, and this moment is all he has left. He rubs his mouth against Paul's, afraid to really kiss him, because he's imagined it so often. Those full lips, Paul's head bent close to his as they studied the lyrics of a song. Paul opens his mouth at once. And then they're kissing. Like they do this everyday. A breathless laugh works its way out of John.

The rest happens so quickly John wishes he could pull on the brakes, freeze in the middle; he wants to commit it to memory. They scramble to find ways into each other's clothing. He can smell Paul's maleness, his arousal. He's so hard, John can feel his prick throb in his hand when he squeezes him. John presses his lips to Paul's neck, slides his tongue over his pulse. Paul lasts less than a minute. John follows suit, bites down on Paul's pillow to stifle his moan. His hand is clasped over Paul's, their fingers are slick with his come.

Paul curls against him as they catch their breath. His prick rests against John's thigh, soft now and leaking. John's done this before with other boys. Usually by this time they're scrambling out of bed, searching for discarded clothing in shamefaced silence. He's startled by the tenderness of Paul's embrace. All at once he can't bear it.

John rolls out of bed and bolts to the loo, washes the stickiness from his skin. His chest feels tight, his pulse rapid. He remembers why he came here in the middle of the night. He remembers why he did this, why he allowed it to happen. Paul is leaving him. In two days. And when he leaves, everything will change. He leans over the toilet bowl, gasping and retching to no avail. Tears are streaming down his face. He tells himself it's the effort of being sick. After a moment he feels Paul behind him. He feels his hand soft on his back. 

“Don't leave me,” John murmurs into the loo. 

Paul doesn't say a word. He just kneels behind him, presses his cheek against John's back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put this mini chapter in to give you a taste of John's state of mind in Liverpool before they leave for Hamburg. The interesting point being John almost couldn't leave because Mimi wouldn't give him his birth certificate to get his passport.
> 
> Thanks to twinka for the fixes. And encouragement.♡
> 
> Thanks to @whereitwillgo for reading and commenting. Happy birthday!
> 
> Thanks to JaneScarlett for the song terms help.


	4. Verse II: John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has an encounter with the mysterious Feuerlein and makes a wish.

The inside of Stu's mouth tastes like oil paint. His hair smells of turpentine. Even now, when he hasn't painted in ages. When they lie in bed together, John feels so large and bulky. A man. Stu is small, fine-boned as a sparrow. He is translucent as china. John touches him first but Stu is daring. He puts it in his mouth, all the way in his mouth, and sucks John off till he weeps with release. With Stu, it doesn't even occur to him to feel ashamed.

“Have you ever done it with another lad before? Did you ever want to?” John asks him, hotly jealous, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

But Stu shakes his head. No.

“Have you? Have you ever wanted to?”

“Of course not,” John says. His voice carries, Paul and Pete might hear him on the other side of the wall. 

But that’s a lie. He wanted to touch Paul. For ages and ages. And then he finally did. He still wants it. Even though he’s been keeping away from Paul. Even though he refuses to talk about that night. The last time he was in Paul's room in Allerton. When John shuts his eyes he can still see Paul's outline in the dark. His wide hazel eyes and soft mouth. His hard prick in John's fist. He feels sick over it. The lust is unbearable. He can't even look at Paul most days. The only time he dares look at him is when they're on the stage, when the music is so loud he can't hear his own thoughts. When the smoke and noise seeps into his brain and erases every last image of that night.

Stu is easy to be with. They're so similar it barely feels like being with another man. He fell into this thing with Stu so naturally, their mouths coming together as if they needed each other to breathe. Here in Hamburg John finds he craves the familiarity. As if without the other man's touch he might forget who he is. Might unlearn how to be John Lennon.

“Not even Paul?” Stu asks. He sounds perfectly calm, but there's an edge to it. One only John ever seems to recognise. 

Stu knows about Paul. He knew instinctively the first time he met him. John saw it in his eyes, guarded at first and then alight with interest and amusement. Stu never poked fun at Cynthia, never remarked on John’s dependence on her. He never pointed out how Cyn had him wrapped around her little finger. Stu was forthright with his criticism of Paul, and since arriving in Hamburg, the two of them are always at odds. Paul is careful to keep his criticism professional, attacking Stuart's poor bass-playing. Stu is merciless. He doesn't like the way Paul undermines John's authority. The way he makes decisions casually without running it by the others first. Stu finds him arrogant and bossy. More often than not John shrugs it off. He's too tired to play leader of the band. It isn't fun. There are far more enjoyable things to do here in St. Pauli. If Paul oversteps his mark it’s easy enough to reassert himself. After all, it's John who refuses to talk about that night. He has some power over Paul.

“Not even Paul, John?” Stu repeats, shaking him from his reverie.

John pushes Stu away and rolls onto his stomach. 

“Why can't you leave that alone? I'm sick of the two of you,” John says and shuts his eyes.

Stu jabs his finger into John's side. “Did you do it with Feuerlein?”

“Fuck you, Sutcliffe. Have you? Do you want to? Want him to hold you down and put it in your bum?”

John turns on his side to watch Stu, his muscled thighs, flat stomach, his cock that’s still half hard. He's like a marble statue brought to life. Stu bends down to search for his clothes underneath the bed. 

“You're the one who can't stop looking at him...her… whatever it is. You and Paul!” he exclaims, grabbing hold of his pants.

John sits up, snorting with laughter, and compelled by the heat of their argument, he reaches over and grabs hold of Stu’s erection.

“Jesus, Lennon. You can't wank your way out of this!”

“Is that so?” John asks, grinning. “I'll have you know I can wank my way out of any conundrum.”

“Yes, it's… fuck me!” Stu exclaims as the lust takes over.

John pulls him back onto the bed by the cock, stroking him until he's shuddering and thrusting.

“That an invitation?”

“No,” Stu says, but he's grinning. “The cheek of you. The absolute cheek.”

“Rock and roll, baby,” John says with a smirk.

“You ruined my life, Lennon.”

And the thing is. He did ruin it at that. Stuart should be home, studying art; he should be in Paris, painting dancers. Not here, pretending to play bass. He should be fucking some gorgeous artist's model on satin sheets. Not grappling with John on a bug-infested pallet.

“Yeah, you'll thank me one day, Sutcliffe. Mark my words.”

He wipes his hand on Stu’s T-shirt with a smirk and rolls over for a nap. Stu scrambles over to his own bed before George gets back. Just before John drifts off to sleep, he can hear Stu mutter: “Thank you, my pale Scottish arse…”

After the evening show they swarm to the bar like bees. John spent all his money on pills and has to wait until they're paid. He thinks about asking Paul to lend him a few Pfennig but things have been strange with Paul since the night they all had pancakes and talked about Feuerlein. He'd like to explain himself but there is no explanation that makes sense. He can't put it into words. He can't even force the feelings into thoughts. Whenever he looks at Paul he can see that flinty indifference. You've had your chance. That's what he's saying, that priggish prick. Now you can watch while I fuck every girl who steps onto the dance floor.

And there he is, his Paul, with some blonde on his lap. His hand is curled possessively about the globe of her breast under the cheap fabric of her brassiere. She's not wearing much else: stockings and suspenders, a brief skirt made of feathers. Her cheeks are red as apples, she looks like a farm girl, but for her skimpy costume, like she spent her whole life till now milking cows, feeding chickens. John hates her. He stands shakily, half a dozen cruel remarks already on his tongue when he sees Feuerlein standing there, watching him, that secretive smirk on her thin lips. She's a man today, dressed in a sharply tailored black suit, a slim waistcoat and a clean white shirt with French cuffs; a crimson foulard about his throat, like a bit of flame.

His fingernails are still green glitter, his lips painted rose, but there's no denying he's a man. He is flipping a coin across his knuckles, slowly at first, and then quicker, until all John sees is the metallic blur.

“You don't look so good, Liebchen, buy yourself a beer,” he says and tosses the coin to John. 

John scrambles to catch it, sliding on the smooth soles of his shoes. When Feuerlein is a man his voice is higher, sweeter, a woman's voice. John always tells himself he won't stare at him but he can't help himself. He loses sleep at night imagining Feuerlein naked. Imagining his prick, pale as milk, hard as marble. He imagines Feuerlein circumcised, like Paul. Between the two of them they'll drive him stark raving mad. 

“I can pay for me own beer!” John insists, though he can't. 

“You can pay me back one day,” Feuerlein says. 

It's what he always says. One day John will buy him a whole brewery. He buys a beer and one for Feuerlein, who has lit a cigarette and is holding it out to John. He takes it, jams it between his lips gratefully. When he gets a gulp of beer down his throat he starts to feel a bit better. He's still cold as fuck though, the stage sweat cooled on his skin and chilled him to the bone.

“I'd sell me balls for a hot bath,” John says out loud.

He tells himself if Feuerlein offers he'll say no. Of course he'll say no. But when he does, John can't help himself. He stands up and takes the man’s hand. He doesn't care who sees them. No one is really sure if Feuerlein is a man or a woman anyway. Pete says she's a woman, so does George, Stu thinks he's a man. John can't make his mind up and Paul… Paul treats her like she's a Duchess but John can't bring himself to ask Paul his opinion. The pledge he made lies heavy on him, like a cloak of lead. He can still hear Feuerlein's reply, ringing in his head like a chime as her hand clasped his and Paul's.

‘Done.’

Feuerlein pulls John out of the club and down the street, past the crowds in front of Kaiserkeller, until they arrive at a house with a red door. He unlocks it and steps inside, switches on an electric lantern covered with Chinese silk and hung with tassels. The light is dim, fickle; it causes shadows to dance across her face and she's a woman again, her cheekbones sharp as a razor. She runs her red tongue over her teeth and sighs. 

“I'll draw you a bath,” she says. “Take off your things.”

She leaves him waiting in the hall and slips away and returns wrapped in a Japanese robe. Her hair is tousled, her face clean and fresh. She looks like a young girl. John doesn't know how he could have ever mistaken her for a man.

“I can't pay you… for… I can't afford…” John stutters.

“Is that what you came for?” she asks.

John shakes his head sheepishly.

“Come with me. Don't talk about money. It's only a bath.”

Feuerlein leaves him in the hall but John doesn't follow her at once. Instead he looks around the flat. She doesn't stop him. He isn't sure what he was expecting. The hallway is papered in silk, red with flowers and birds. The floor is covered with a golden carpet, threadbare but still beautiful, it reminds John of _One Thousand and One Nights_. Instead of a wall there is a wooden frame with frosted glass inserts etched with a multitude of stars. He steps through the doorway into the kitchen. By the window is a claw-footed enamel bathtub. Above it—ah, what luxury—a boiler. Feuerlein is on her knees by the tub, testing the water from the tap against her wrist. John can see her bare feet peeking out from beneath the folds of her oriental robe. The soles of her feet are pale pink.

Across from the bathtub is the cooker and the sink. In the sink is a chipped blue enamel colander that contains four green apples, the sort they call Granny Smith. John always calls them Auntie Smith. He longs to take one and taste its firm, tart flesh, but for once he doesn't want to be impertinent.

Beyond another frosted glass wall lies the bedroom. A moss green velvet curtain hangs from the door frame. John pushes the curtain aside with one finger. The room is almost spartan. On the windowsill is a book and a glass jar that has recently been used as an ashtray. The bedframe is wrought iron, painted green. The bedclothes are white, spotless; not a wrinkle in the coverlet, the pillows plump and perfect. A virgin's bed. Not where he imagined a whore might lie down to sleep. He spots a small painting on the wall but can't see it clearly without his glasses. 

In the daytime it must be very bright in here; all the windows are large, unfettered by curtains, save for a bit of lace hanging in the window by the bathtub that likely affords little in the way of privacy. He's also surprised to see a number of potted plants scattered liberally about the flat. He recognises a palm, a fern and a great hanging vine with heart-shaped leaves that his cousin Leila once called Devil's Ivy.

John strips off his leather jacket, kicks off his pointed shoes and leather trousers and shirt and places them on a stool near the cooker. When she turns away from the tub he's standing there in his socks and pants, too terrified to continue.

“Take the rest of it off,” she says with a tone of barely concealed amusement. “Every fille de joie in the Reeperbahn has seen your cock. Probably most of the girls in Liverpool, if the rumours are true.”

“They aren't. Not...they're not exactly… not every girl…” John finds it impossible to keep the truth from Feuerlein. Sometimes he tries to keep it in and feels it clawing its way out of him viciously, tearing his esophagus to shreds.

“Oh? One or two boys, then?”

John looks away, cheeks burning and stomach tight with shame. When he glances up again, Feuerlein is staring at him, her face serious, not a hint of mocking.

“It's okay to want things, boy. At least allow yourself to want them.”

He nods, the compulsion to move his head overpowering. Feuerlein is beside him, sliding John's underpants down his hips. She lets a hand trail up his bare chest. John can't breathe, his heart is beating so fast. She smells like flowers. Like the funeral wreath on Julia's coffin. Her hair is blonde in this light, nearly white. Her lashes are so pale they're almost invisible.

“What is it you want?” she asks.

Paul.

John struggles to keep the name down, chokes on it. 

“I…” he says instead.

She falls to her knees to remove his socks, her fingers feather-light against the skin of his ankles. She takes his foot in her hand and caresses his instep. If she'd taken hold of his prick it couldn't be more intimate. 

“You'll tell me,” she says. “They all do eventually.”

Feuerlein leads him to the bathtub and urges him to sit down in the warm water. It feels like he's died and gone to heaven. He leans back in the tub, sighing loudly, closes his eyes contentedly.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “I haven't been properly clean since leaving Liverpool.”

Feuerlein places his hand on John's shoulder, and startled, he slides underwater. He opens his eyes. He sees her through the watery veil, her robe has fallen open and he can see her breasts, small and firm as tiny apples. Her nipples are dark pink. He imagines placing one between his lips as though it were a berry. He sits up, water streaming down his chest in rivulets. She's kneeling on the floor, sponge in hand. 

“Shh. First things first,” she says, a small smile playing upon her lips. 

She starts to scrub his neck and shoulders, leaning so close he could easily put his mouth on her breast. John's prick is stiff, the tip protruding comically on the surface of the water. He wills her to rub at it with her soapy sponge. This isn't why he came here but all at once all he can think of is stepping out of the tub and pushing her flat on her back on the parquet floor and taking her right there in a puddle of bathwater. There's something romantic about the idea. Like the first time he deposited Cyn on Stuart's bed and pressed his lips to the sweet flesh between her breasts. Like that time in Allerton when he pulled Paul into his arms in the middle of the night. He was so hard when John touched him, he came almost at once, letting out a sound of humiliation and animal lust. It sent a thrill through John that had never subsided.

Feuerlein attacks his back with the sponge, scrubbing viciously. Occasionally she laughs to herself, dry bursts of laughter like she has a chest cold.

“You're quite pale without the filth, lad,” she says.

John chokes. He wants to say he'll show her just how filthy he is but the words stick in his throat. She scrubs his chest, her lips brush against his ear. 

“You want to show me how filthy you are?” she whispers.

He can't say a word. Before he knows it her hand is on his cock. Her grip is firm, fingers strong. She doesn't move, just holds him. 

“You know, this is the best way to read a fortune.” 

She strokes him once and his hand comes up to touch her face. Her skin is like velvet. He's shaking, his stomach turning cartwheels. Sheer panic, he realises; he's afraid of her and it's glorious.

“You're going to change the world. Just give it a chance. But you burn so bright, Liebchen, you won't last long.”

John puts his hand over hers, pumps it again and again. He doesn't give a toss about his fortune. He thinks he'd like to fuck her but this feels too good. He doesn't want her to let go of his cock. He imagines fucking her might feel like flying or dying. Thrilling, but too infinite to grasp. He feels the same way about Paul. Kissing him was like sliding into another consciousness, one they might inhabit together.

“Two of you. Burning matches. So brilliant they can still see your light decades later. Like the shell of a star. Shining on long after it's burned out.”

“What?” John gasps. She's stroking him steadily now, he tilts his hips to thrust into her hand and slides underwater.

“Not yet. John Lennon. The world has other plans for you,” Feuerlein says.

John opens his mouth, swallows soapy water. He can see her kneeling over him, still stroking his hard prick, thumb massaging the sensitive head. John's heart is going to explode. Feuerlein leans down and places her face on the surface of the water. Dark hair frames a pale heart-shaped face. She opens her eyes, hazel and bewitching. When she laughs John can see his Adam’s apple bob. He opens his mouth, those lips John kissed in Allerton.

“John,” he says. 

And oh, fuck it. Oh, Jesus. No one says his name like Paul. John resurfaces, coughing and spluttering, and she's a woman again, her russet hair slicked back, eyelashes hung with jewelled droplets.

“Oh, fuck,” John moans. He struggles to stand but his body won't let him. It's too much. Too much for him. “Oh, fuck I can’t take it anymore!”

“Not yet.” She holds him down, her hand never slowing on his cock.

“I can't,” John says again, shuddering violently.

“What do you need to take on the world? Say it and it's yours.” Feuerlein's voice cracks like a whip.

What does he need to take on the world? Money. Beauty. Talent. His mind is a blur. He can have it all. All he has to do is ask for it. 

“Paul,” John says. 

He comes like firecrackers, like bombs on D-day, his seed swirling in the bathwater. 

“Done,” Feuerlein says in that sepulchral tone, like she did weeks ago, when they first met, her hands covering his and Paul's.

John looks up at her, trying to see Paul in her sharp, wolfish features, but Paul is gone. Only Feuerlein is left with her mismatched eyes and thin-lipped smile. Her robe is open to the waist now. Blindly, John leans forward and takes her right nipple in his mouth and sucks it hard. She wraps her arms around him and lets him suckle like a babe. The feeling that washes over him is stronger than the orgasm was. As he loses consciousness he hears her whisper:

“It's time for bed.”

He wakes up bathed in the light coming in from the windows. He’s lying on top of crisp white sheets in that green framed bed, completely dressed. His clothes are clean. On a chair near the bed is his leather jacket. It looks brand new, unscuffed and unstained. Feuerlein is nowhere to be seen. He calls out for her and receives no reply.

He can't remember getting out of the tub, can't remember getting into bed. John doesn't know if he fucked her. It's hardly the first time this has happened to him, but it's the first time he sincerely hopes he didn't. In the cold light of day the thought of Feuerlein turns his guts to ice. He gets out of bed, puts on his shoes and looks furtively around the room. He walks towards the small painting on the wall. It's Jesus on the cross, his body twisted in agony. John leans closer. He thinks he recognises his beak-like nose, his narrow eyes. His hair is thick and long, a lion's mane. His beard is ginger in the sunlight. John looks away, his stomach churning. It's just a trick of the light. 

He searches for telltale signs but the room is pristine, not one hint of a night of passion. Even the ashtray is clean. John picks up the book on the ledge. _Une Saison en Enfer_. A Season in Hell.

“One evening I took Beauty in my arms–and I thought her bitter–and I insulted her,” John reads aloud. 

He sticks the slim volume into the back pocket of his leather trousers and exits the bedroom. The rest of the flat is spotless too, everything in its place, except for the apples. He finds them on a small wooden table by the window in a porcelain bowl festooned with cherry blossoms. He grabs one on the way out before he can change his mind and eats it on the way home, juice running down his chin.

The weather is mild. St. Pauli looks drab in the sunlight; worn, like a whore caught out in the rain, paint and hair lacquer melting in the deluge. John doesn't often find himself out and about during the daytime. Generally he's still asleep at this time, he'd be asleep yet if he could have stomached being alone in Feuerlein's flat. A man in a fur-lined coat eyes John in his rocker leathers speculatively but moves along at the sight of a matron returning from market, her children trailing behind her like ducklings. 

Back in the Bambi Kino the Fraus are mopping the tiled floors. It smells of bleach and sweat. 

“Looks better fucking dirty if you ask me,” John mutters at one of them.

“Aufpassen, Junge!” one of them shrieks, waving her mop at him. “Hab grad aufgewischt.”

John glares at her and then walks across the freshly mopped area intentionally just to put her nose out of joint.

The Liverpool lads aren't up yet. George is lying on his sofa, clutching his guitar like a teddy bear as if he fell asleep in the middle of playing. Stu is curled in a ball against the wall. The door to Pete and Paul's room doesn't quite close, they tie it closed with a length of twine. John peers inside. He longs to sit on the edge of Paul's bed, see if he looks different. He wants to touch him, see if he feels different. John isn't entirely sure he believes strange, enticing Feuerlein is capable of magic. But there's a knot in his chest, it hurts to swallow. It feels like destiny. He can just about make out Paul's profile. He could have asked for anything in the world. He asked for him.

The encounter with Feuerlein has left him sad and empty. John returns to his room, strips off his clothes and lies down in his bunk. The blankets smell stale. He thinks about Allerton. The curve of Paul's back, the scent of his hair, sea and honeysuckle. He wants to be back there. Or in Paul's yard playing guitar eyeball to eyeball. He hasn't been this clean in weeks but the Hamburg filth is bone-deep. He isn't sure it will ever wash off. He falls asleep to the soft sound of George's breath. 

The day never really gets going. John is far from top form. Staring off into the distance, forgetting what he wants to say mid-sentence. Even some regulars remark upon it. He realises he's been expecting to see Feuerlein in the crowd, cheering them on while they're _mach schauing_. And as soon as he thinks of Feuerlein he appears. A man today in a cloth of gold suit, aquamarine shirt, hair slicked back, fingers glittering with rings. After the last set they're surrounded; young people have been flocking to see them, mixing in with the sailors and prostitutes. The men usually admire John's schoolboy antics. Not tonight, however. The girls cluster around Pete and Paul. Stu is a mystery, back to the crowd; both men and women try to coax him out from behind his dark glasses.

One moment Paul is surrounded by cooing girls, the next he's gone. It would be easy enough to find a girl himself, find some dark area to enjoy her company, but John is tired, jittery from the pills. All he wants to do is drink to take off the edge. He drinks as long as the bar will let him and then puts his head down on the wooden table.

Someone tries to pull the glass out of his hand. John roars at them blindly, spills beer all over his freshly laundered clothes. 

“Leave me the fuck alone!”

He looks up into Stu’s face, his eyes are wide with hurt. 

“Calm down.”

“Don’t bother him. He’ll be alright in the morning.”

Someone puts their hand on the back of his neck. He's too tired to brush them off, his skin feels like a lead suit weighing him down, like a deep sea diver.

John wakes up in his bed in the Bambi Kino. It's four in the morning. Pete is asleep on the sofa with George. George has his cheek pressed to Pete's calf. Both their legs hang off of either end of the sofa. Stu is in bed alone, his face is streaked with bright pink lipstick. John wonders who’s in the room with Paul if Pete is here, probably the blonde milkmaid with her cow teats from the night before. John slides out of bed and gropes on the ground for his shoes. Then he pulls open the door a bit to peer into Paul's room. He doesn't know what he was expecting. The blonde girl? Maybe two girls? 

He can see the pale line of Paul's back glowing white in the moonlight that streams in from the doorway. He's crouched on the floor in front of his bed, his head down in someone's lap. Large, strong hands rest against the nape of his neck. Paul's hair is dark, inky in the gloom; the fingers tangled in his hair are long, spidery, pale as milk in contrast. John's brain is scrambling to understand the scene in front of him. A scream is trapped in his throat, he gasps to free it but it doesn't come. He opens the door further. His stomach is churning, he forces a breath of air in through his nostrils, then expels it again hastily. The man on the bed is leaning against the wall, sounds of low pleasure escaping his mouth. A slender man with sinewy arms, tall from the looks of it. Thin but strong, his chest is narrow, flat, hairless. John reaches into his trouser pocket for his glasses and pushes them on impatiently. It's Feuerlein. Of course. Of course it's Feuerlein, the red-gold hair a cloud about his face, his lips parted. His tongue darts out to taste the air like a viper. Eyes shut, lids blue with powder, pale lashes fluttering like mad. There's a quirk to his mouth like he's smiling, like he's mocking John. But he can't see him, can he? He can't see him from where he sits, pushing himself lazily into Paul's mouth with slow strokes.

He pulls Paul's hair, holding him in place and then draws himself almost entirely out so John can see the length of his cock gleaming before he thrusts. John's own cock strains against his leather trousers against his will. Is Feuerlein a man after all? Paul's hands are on Feuerlein’s hips, gripping them convulsively. His whole body shivers with effort. John doesn't think he's ever seen Paul entirely naked before and for a moment he's transfixed. Paul looks older without his clothes, more mature than John had imagined. 

Feuerlein’s breath rasps out, loud as stormy rainfall in the dead silence of the Kino. He holds Paul's head to him, his hips snapping as he picks up speed. And then the creature opens its mismatched eyes and looks straight at John. It lifts a hand, crooks a finger at him. John pushes himself away from the door, scrambles backwards, shoes sliding on the worn floor. In that moment Paul pulls away from Feuerlein and turns to look at John, his eyes round as pinwheels, his mouth a gaping red wound. He mouths John's name soundlessly, struggles to stand, his legs give way and he stumbles coltishly. John sprints back to his room and shuts the door. Safe in bed he pulls the covers over his head. When he hears Paul whisper his name a moment later he shuts his eyes and covers his ears like a child frightened of a monster.

He isn't sure what to make of what he just witnessed. He sucked Feuerlein’s tit just last night. He knows she was a woman deep in his gut. Just as he knows he was a man in Paul's room. John saw his cock clear as day. He shouldn't be surprised to discover that Paul likes men just as much as he likes girls. All the same, his heart aches. He told himself Paul was only queer for him. The words sound stupid when he says them in his head. His clothes are constricting him, he can't breathe like this. He drags his shirt over his head and unbuttons his trousers, kicks them off the bed. All at once he's shoving his hand beneath the waistband of his underpants. He's already leaking, his desire is so urgent. He pictures Paul on his knees in front of the bed. Except Paul's hands are on John's thighs, his fingers curling against his flesh. His prick is in Paul's mouth. John grips the back of his head like Feuerlein just did and holds Paul in place as he climaxes violently, splattering himself with come, calls out as he does and he doesn't give a rat's arse who hears him.

George wakes him in the afternoon. His face is flushed with excitement, his eyes feverish. 

“Koschmider says he's moving us to Kaiserkeller. How about that?” George sings.

John sits up and rubs his eyes. His hands are caked in dried come. All he can think is that something happened. Something is moving. If he licks his finger and holds it up he can feel the wind turn. And deep in the pit of his stomach he knows they made it happen.

“Aren't you pleased?” George asks. “You wouldn't shut up about how shit the Indra is. How we deserve better.”

He isn't sure Kaiserkeller is better but he knows it can only get better from here. John swings his legs out of bed.

“When do we start? I'm fucking starved. Lend us a few Pfennig, will you, lad? Can't get to the top on an empty stomach.”

George obliges. “I haven't told Paul yet, he'll be chuffed to bits!”

John feels his cheeks blaze with shame at the sound of Paul's name. He remembers Paul's face, stricken, red with exertion. Feuerlein’s long body on the bed, his naked skin against the rough wool of Paul's coat. His own frantic arousal. He stares past George for a moment, trying to compose himself.

“John!” George is saying. “I thought you'd want to be the one to tell Paul the news. He's gone out but he should be back in a bit. Went to post his letters home. Did you have one for Cyn? Usually he asks you.”

John shakes his head. He misses Cyn terribly all at once, the simplicity of her. Her loyalty. How she can fold him in her arms and make him feel safe. He's lucky to have her. She's lovely, and kind and clever. So why is he so keen to throw it all away for a moment alone with Paul McCartney?

“Oh, and I meant to tell you! I met Feuerlein at the shops this morning. She gave me a kiss. Just a small one, mind.” George presses his fingers to his jaw. “Just here. She smells like roses.”

“This morning? Was Paul with him? Ah… her?”

“Paul? No. I'm telling you John, she's a woman. Long blonde hair, eyes of blue and all,” George says. His eyes are bright with excitement.

“Feuerlein can suck my limp Scouse dick,” John says dully.

“No need to be like that, John. I think she's lovely.”

John shrugs his apology. He doesn't know what she is. A witch? A demon? Turning their heads one by one. Like when he was a kid tearing the buds off flowers because he could, because it was so satisfying to feel them round and hard between his fingertips before tossing them to the ground. Part of him wants to find Paul, grab him and tell him he was right the first time. They don't need Feuerlein to make it. The other part knows they're in too deep. It's Kaiserkeller now. Then, who knows? They'll take whole world by storm. Some things are worth sacrificing for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Twinka for the beautiful job you did correcting this chapter. You really have an eye for detail and flow.
> 
> This chapter was actually the first chapter I wrote for this fic. I was rewatching The Reader for post war German influences and I could see Feuerlein’s flat very clearly in my head. The glass walls etched with stars and the bathtub in the kitchen are based on Hanna's flat in the film. 
> 
> The details on the Bambi Kino are from Klaus Voorman's book Warum spielst du Imagine nicht auf dem weissen Klavier, John?  
> It was a bit of a drag getting the logistics right since no one seems to remember it exactly.
> 
> Feuerlein's look of the day is the thin white duke.
> 
> I very much hope you're enjoying this! Comments are encouraging!


	5. Bridge II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul finally makes his wish with interesting results.

John is changed. And the problem is no one else can see it, just Paul. There’s a softness to him now, a vulnerability. Ever since the night they ate pancakes, hat last night of easy camaraderie. He remembers that look on John's face when he asked him not to tell anyone about the deal with Feuerlein. It reminded him of the last night John spent in his room in Liverpool before they left for Hamburg. How he'd peeked behind the mask and seen a little boy who was scared of being left behind. It hadn't occurred to Paul until that evening that they might have to leave without John. There was no band without him. Paul's world made no sense without John. And then, without the benefit of a deal with a sorceress in glittery heels, John's passport came through and they were off. Paul understands why John doesn't want to talk about that night. He knows why they have to keep it a secret. What he doesn't understand is this rift between them. After all, John started it.

When John looks at him now, his eyes are dull. Paul's used to the taunting, he's used to the games, the demands, the endless insecurity. He's used to a John who can’t stop talking. This new John terrifies Paul. All evening he's been sullen, silent, distant. Koschmider is in the crowd calling out, “Mach Schau!” and John is going through the motions. Paul keeps expecting him to lash out, like he's a bottle of carbonated beverage you've spent ages shaking that finally explodes in your face.

After the show John marches straight to the bar and starts drinking like he's hell-bent on oblivion. Paul spends a few minutes chatting with some girls from the audience, encouraging their broken English and forming signs with his hands when words fail. His eyes are fixed on John's back. Someone brings him a drink and he swallows it down, wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

“You're sad, Liebchen,” a soft voice whispers in his ear. 

Feuerlein is dressed in a golden suit, a turquoise silk shirt with an open neck. His cufflinks wink at Paul like glaring ruby eyes. He looks spectacular, like something from a film. Paul wishes he had the courage to wear a suit like that. Feuerlein offers him a ciggie from a slim case and lights it with a snap of his fingers.

“I'm not sad,” Paul says sullenly. He isn't. He's just lonely, just tired, hungry, he just wants John back. He's not sad, he's angry. 

“You just need someone to take care of you, that's all,” Feuerlein says, taking hold of his hand. 

“You're that someone, are you?” Paul asks, raising his eyebrows. He wants to sound cool, almost biting, like John. He stares right into Feuerlein’s eyes, unblinkingly. 

“And why not?” He raises Paul's hand to his lips and licks the back of his hand with a broad stroke of his tongue.

Why not, indeed? Paul twists his wrist and slaps Feuerlein’s cheek gently, eliciting a shrug and a small, secretive smile. 

He lets Feuerlein take him to a little dive a few streets away from the Indra. It’s grimey, dimly lit, frequented by sailors and drunks. The middle-aged patroness eyes them wearily and wipes down the table with a rag. 

“Was wollt’s ihr?” she asks disinterestedly.

“Ein Bier, bitte,” Paul says carefully, flashing her a smile. She doesn’t even look his way.

Feuerlein waves Paul’s order away and flips the woman a coin, which she grabs out of mid-air with preternatural speed. Then he orders something from her in rapid-fire German and sends her on her way.

“What was that just now? Can't I have a beer? You haven’t ordered girls, have you?” Paul quips.

“You don’t want girls,” Feuerlein says. He undoes his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. Paul notices for the first time his hands are ringed in gold, not men’s rings but the kind you’d buy a girl you want to marry, gaudy with diamonds. “Not tonight, anyway. What is it you do want, Paul? Are you ready to say?”

The woman comes back with two plates of pickled herring and a heap of golden fried potatoes sprinkled with bits of bacon, a bottle of champagne and two fine champagne flutes. Paul’s jaw drops. 

“How? Why?” he stutters. This doesn’t seem the sort of place to serve champagne.

“You ought to be spoiled, my sweet. Champagne, chocolates,” Feuerlein says. He grips the champagne bottle, slides his hand down the neck slowly.

Paul can’t help but blush. He feels his skin prickle with want for all those things, all those comforts denied to him. 

“You ought to be bedded down on rose petals like a prince,” the man whispers.

Paul feels it working its way out of him bit by bit, like a loose tooth hanging on a sliver of flesh. When it comes free, he spits it out:

“Him. I want him.”

As soon as he says it, it feels like the weight of the world tumbling from his shoulders. He groans out loud with relief. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it? Eat your supper, Paul.” Feuerlein reaches over to grasp a potato from Paul’s plate. “That’s all you're lacking, isn’t it? A bit of love and a bit of truthfulness. Truth is the tonic.” He puts the morsel of potato between his teeth, the action threateningly carnal.

Paul picks up his fork and starts to eat. The food is good and plenty and Paul realises he's starving. Feuerlein leans back in his chair, squeezes the cork between his thumbs and pushes it out of the bottle with an audible pop. Everything he does seem like innuendo to Paul.

“What will you do to have him?” he asks Paul as he fills the flutes with bubbly.

He hands Paul a glass and watches in amusement as he swallows half the drink in one go. Paul shrugs, sets the glass down carefully.

“What do you mean?” he asks slowly.

“I mean, what is he worth to you?” Feuerlein asks, reaches over and brushes Paul's cheek with his knuckles. His rings scrape Paul's skin causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise up.

“What do you want?” He eyes the man anxiously. There's a magnetic pull between them. Paul's eyes flutter shut. They're going to kiss, he's sure of it. Paul's never kissed another man before, only John. Feuerlein curls the tip of his red tongue against the upper lip, holds it there a moment. His mouth looks so inviting.

“A bit of that,” Feuerlein says cryptically. Paul wonders if he can read his mind. Is he going to do it right here? Right now?

“You're not…you're not to tell anyone,” Paul says. He looks around uncomfortably, but no one is looking at them. “Do you understand?”

“Like secrets, do you? Do they excite you?”

Paul's stomach flips. He doesn't know if he particularly likes secrets but he's undeniably excited now. Is kissing Feuerlein the price? He imagined it might be something unpleasant, something he would regret, not something he'd fantasised about for weeks. He eats his meal in a rush, swilling down the champagne like it's water. The waitress takes their plates away, her eyes flicking over Feuerlein hurriedly as if she's afraid to stare. 

“What happens now?” Paul asks.

“Now. Now you make all your dreams come true.”

They stroll for a while in the moonlight like young lovers might, like Paul might with a girl in England if he wanted a feel of her breast, a bit of finger-pie. If he undresses Feuerlein what will he find? It doesn't really matter to him, he realises. It doesn't matter in the slightest. He grabs hold of Feuerlein's hand, presses him against the backdoor of the Bambi Kino. He slips his hand under Feuerlein's jacket, runs his palm over his flat chest and then down, down and over where Feuerlein is hard. In the dim light he can see the flash of his crooked smile right before he covers Paul's mouth with his own. It feels like he's on fire. He feeds the flames with all his fears, all his shame. It all burns away to ash.

Somehow they manage to get out of the street and into the room, tiptoeing past the area where Stu, George and John lie sleeping. Paul shakes Pete awake. 

“Can you go kip with George?” he whispers.

Pete blinks owlishly and stares past Paul at Feuerlein. He sits up, the Union Jack flag he’s covered himself with sliding to the floor.

“What's she doing here?” Pete asks, rubbing his eyes with balled up fists.

“Go on, lad. Give us some space, yeah?” Paul says obstinately.

As soon as Pete stumbles out of bed and into the next room, Paul ties the door closed with the worn length of twine as best he can. And then he's alone with Feuerlein. 

“And now we're alone, my darling boy,” Feuerlein whispers.

Paul fights off a fit of shyness and plucks at the man's clothes urgently. With a flourish of one hand Feuerlein pulls on the corner of his jacket and all at once he's stark naked. He’s so perfect Paul's breath catches in his throat. All that smooth white skin, the blue veins beneath it, his cock rigid, jutting before him like a welcome sign. He reaches for Paul, places his hands to either side of his face and claims his mouth. It's like drowning. Paul's heart labours frantically, he slides his tongue against Feuerlein's. The man presses him close, they're both naked now; Paul's clothing seems to have evaporated into thin air and he's rubbing his hardness against Feuerlein's shamelessly. Paul reaches down to stroke that marble cock, his breath coming in excited little gasps. 

Feuerlein pushes him down onto the narrow bed. The wool coat Paul uses in lieu of a coverlet is scratchy against his bare skin. Feuerlein has Paul’s prick in his grasp and he's already leaking onto his fingers, onto the green glittery fingernails and all those sparkling rings. He thinks he'll come in about a second, like a callow schoolboy.

“I want you to do to me what you want to do to him,” Feuerlein whispers. 

Paul can't stifle his groan of desire. He drops to the ground, his hands on Feuerlein's knees, pushing himself between the man's legs. He presses his face against Feuerlein's cock, inhales his strange, fiery scent. He flicks his tongue over the head, laps at the fluid there hungrily. He feels the pressure of a hand over his own and looks down at it. He would know the hand covering his own anywhere. He's seen it a hundred thousand times, forming chords, lighting ciggies. John. Oh, god—oh, John. How can this be? Is it an illusion? Paul doesn't care.

He grabs hold of John's hips and pushes his cock into his mouth as far as he can take it. John's hands are in his hair, holding him in place. He's trembling, trembling, thrusting into Paul's mouth jerkily. Paul wants him to come in his mouth. He wants to swallow every drop. He can't breathe, sucks in his breath through his nose shakily. John's pace slows, his hands convulse in Paul's hair.

There's a sound in Paul's head like glass breaking, and startled, he looks up. John is standing at the doorway, his face pale and stricken. The man on the bed is Feuerlein, looking up at him with a small, smug smile. Paul's voice shrivels in his throat, he struggles to stand but his legs won't cooperate. John is already striding out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him—and Paul can't think of a single thing to say or do, to make this right. He turns back to the man sprawled on his bed. 

“Please,” Paul mouths. Fix this, do your magic.

Feuerlein motions to the door with one poetic hand. Paul looks around frantically for his clothing and is startled to find it folded neatly on the end of Pete's bed. He pulls on his trousers quickly, not bothering with his underpants or shirt. He opens the door and runs into the adjacent room, barefoot despite the cold, filthy concrete floor. He sees Pete and George on the small couch, Stu in his narrow field bed.

“John,” Paul whispers, his voice so soft he doubts John heard him.

John flinches under the covers, like he's heard him, but makes no move to sit up. After a beat Paul heads back to his room, stands before the closed door for ages. When he turns back to look the sheet is tented high, John is stirring under it. His shirt lands on the floor and then his trousers. Paul’s thoughts are racing, he takes a step closer and then another and another and then he's standing too close to the bed. He looks around furtively at the others; everyone is lying motionless, asleep to all intents and purposes.

The sheet begins to move steadily, the rhythm unmistakable. Paul can't look away. John's breath grows jagged, loud in his ears. He'll wake the whole room if they are even asleep. Paul is rooted to the spot, his heart feels too large for his chest, it's going to explode. He can imagine John's face, his eyes screwed shut with concentration, his lips trembling. Paul knows beneath the covering he's got his hand clenched around his prick, pumping desperately. He should leave, he should turn back, but he can't; he needs to witness John’s climax. 

They've all heard John come countless times, in Liverpool during wanking circles, here in Hamburg with all those girls. But it's different this time. This time Paul knows he's done this. This is for him. His heart is going so fast he's dizzy with it. 

“Ah fuck, Macca,” John gasps. “Oh, Macca!”

A wave of shock and devastating pleasure tears through him like a tempest. Paul swallows down a strangled moan. He said his name. Twice. Unmistakably. And everyone heard it. For a moment he can't move, his feet are rooted to the spot. There's a warm wet patch spreading on his groin; he's come in his trousers like a kid. He runs out the door, his face burning with shame. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Stu sit up. 

In the loo he just leans against the sink, staring at his reflection in the tarnished mirror. There's a flicker of gold behind him, and when he turns, he sees Feuerlein is standing there, watching him. He's dressed in his ridiculous suit again, his jewel-toned shirt gleaming in the glaring light of the naked lightbulb. Paul shuts his eyes. 

“Just leave me alone, please,” he says. His voice cracks and he doesn't want to open his eyes because they’re welling with unshed tears. 

Feuerlein's arms come around him and pull him close. He can feel her breasts beneath that gold suit. He turns to face her, presses his face to her shoulder. 

“I'll ruin your jacket,” Paul says, tears falling freely now.

“I don't give a fig about my jacket!” Feuerlein says firmly.

She holds Paul out at arm's length, shakes him once gently. Then she drops her hands to open his trousers and drags them down his hips. 

“No,” Paul says, pushing her hands away frantically. “Not...It's not…” It's too much for him and his thighs are sticky with his spilled seed. And John said his name. And everyone heard.

“Hush, love,” Feuerlein murmurs.

She pulls out a large handkerchief and wets it under the tap and gently wipes the mess from his groin. Paul's cheeks sting with humiliation. This is not how he imagined the night going. And now he's ruined it, John’s ruined it.

“Nothing is ruined. Only beginnings here. Don't you see?” Feuerlein says, her hands are so soft, stroking him tenderly. There's a knot in Paul's chest. 

“But…” Paul begins, his voice cracking.

“What did you ask for, sweet? What have you received?”

The knowledge that John desires him. The secret is out. And Feuerlein made it happen. The realisation hits Paul at once, like a wave sweeping overhead and dragging him under. When he comes up for air, his lungs bruised, shrieking for oxygen, all he can feel is relief and a tentative hope. 

“You did this,” Paul whispers.

“You did it. I only set the scene.”

She leans in and puts her hand on Paul's chest. Her touch is warm but the heat is coming from within him.

“This is where the magic is.”

She takes his hand and leads him back through the room to his bed. Everyone is back under their blankets. If they're not asleep they're doing their damndest to pretend they are. Paul looks straight ahead, doesn't stop to look at John. Back in his own bed he lets Feuerlein cover him with the wool coat. She puts a hand over his eyes. He's all shook up inside. Too many thoughts are tumbling through his mind, his body humming with excitement.

“I can't possibly sleep,” Paul says, struggling to sit up again.

Feuerlein lies down beside him and drapes an arm across his shoulder. Her touch is calming. She puts her head against his and sings softly into his ear. 

“Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,  
Smiles awake you when you rise;  
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,  
And I will sing a lullaby.”

Her voice is deep, strange, haunting. Dipping low and then up again, straining. Soft as velvet, harsh as rain in the wind. Paul wants to write her a song, wants to hear her sing something he created, but he's sleepy after all, he's drifting. He's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be able to finish this fic in time for the deadline. I struggled a long time before finally realising that fact. I'm very sad i won't qualify to be put on the masterlist. The time allotted should have been more than enough under normal circumstances but unfortunately, that's not how real life works. As well as my very very long hours at work- 14 a day, there's the thing about inspiration. Sometimes in writing you know you should be working on something but another story gets in the way.  
> In my case it was Samantha. If i had tried to force myself to finish this- even with the deadline hanging over my head i might have succeeded but it wouldn't have been quality. The truth is it's possible to write 20000 words in this amount of time but depending on the circumstances not always possible to write something worthwhile.
> 
> Anyway. I'll do my best to finish as much as i can but I'm pretty sure I can't make it. 
> 
> The dish Feuerlein and Paul eat is a traditional Hamburg dish. 
> 
> The song Feuerlein sings Paul is the original Cradle Song by Thomas Dekker that Paul based Golden Slumbers on. I liked the 'wantons' part.
> 
> Thank you to @whereitwillgo for reading and saying that Feuerlein is hot.
> 
> Thank you as always to the invaluable Twinka for noticing continuity mistakes and just generally being inspiring and supporting me. I've needed to lean on you a lot more than usual with my brain so jumbled with work burn out. You're always there for me and I'm so grateful and happy you're my friend.♡
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is reading this. I'm sorry i won't finish it on time.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry. Next chapter all will become clear. Sort of.
> 
> I can't even remember when i first thought of this fic. It occurred to me at some point as it must occur to every Beatles fan that their story is a perfect fairy tale. Down to the last symbolic detail. True love, betrayal, deals with the devil. A run of unbelievable success and luck the likes of which the world had never known before. (And never will again) A string of tragedies. So much loss and death. 
> 
> This is my version of the fairy tale. I researched the Beatles facts to the point of buying Allan Williams' out of print book for an extortionate sum. The original character is based on a real person. Kudos if you can guess who.
> 
> Thank you to @whereitwillgo for encouragement and commentary 
> 
> Thank you to Alegriavida for being my friend. The original character was written with your voice in my head.
> 
> Thank you as always to Twinka for the beta and for always knowing the best way to tickle a good story out of me. You're a constant inspiration. I can't wait for the art ♡.


End file.
